


Brush Strokes

by RedactedReader



Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: Azula (Avatar) Redemption, Implied Sokka/Zuko (Avatar), Therapy, brief camo for Piandao, minor Zukka in background, therapy through art
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-10
Updated: 2021-01-10
Packaged: 2021-03-13 21:01:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28659888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedactedReader/pseuds/RedactedReader
Summary: "And I know I’m not…” he rubbed the back of his neck, not looking away, “as good at this as Uncle is… but I’m trying. Because he saved me from myself, and you finally opened up to me and…. And… and I just hope that I can do the same for you.”“You wanna save me from myself?”Zuko’s one brow raised. “Do you need to be?”She looked away, gaze trailing across the painted city. She wanted to burn it. Part of her wanted to burn all of these beautiful works of art until they were ash and dust. The urge was a lot less smothering than it used to be. “What if I’m not worth it. What if you’re just wasting your time.”It wasn’t framed as a question.“Well, we could always waste time together then.”oooAzula finds herself again through art
Relationships: Azula & Zuko (Avatar)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 124





	Brush Strokes

Pigments of all shades once dawned the little fingers of a young Azula. Her mother was an artist at core, and her children were just the same. She’d sit at her mothers feet, sharing charcoal sticks and bowls of paint with her brother as their mother embroidered silk birds into equally silky fabrics. She’d smile up, baring a missing toothed smile as her mother told her how beautiful her painting were. She’d stand in pride as her mother hung her numerous family portraits on the wall. Charcoal and paint were the binding of their peaceful little moments in a palace full of tension and strife. 

When mother left, the art left with her. The paints had already started to dry before that night. Azula’s young fingers hadn’t held a brush in quite some time. She had learned that the bamboo sticks burnt quickly and the rabbit-owl bristles smelled when burning. Zuko didn’t learn. He never learned. He kept the charcoal sticks hidden in his room, and their mother’s silk threads under his pillow and father burned them with the rest. 

Bending became her art. She threw herself into it until the fire at her fingers turned the very blue of the skies she once painted. She burned the portraits she had painted and watched as her mother’s face melted into the flames. Art was a waste of time, her father scolded. It was unproductive and did nothing to benefit the expansion of Fire Nation glory. Did nothing to further the glory of their family. She removed art from her life. Her marks on the world were no longer brushes of pigments and details of charcoal, it was burns and ash marks and a city’s wall toppled by her ambition. 

War was an art Azula perfected. But war was over. War ended with her father defeated, her nation drawn back, her brother on the throne and herself in a rather nice cell with a large, yet bared window. She would never forget that this was indeed a cell. The soft bed, the warm blanket, the desk, the bookshelf full of novels she might enjoy, the personal bathroom with the deep tub, the window facing the rising sun, the items replaced again and again as she burned them in fury… it would not delude from the fact that she was still imprisoned between the bared window and the locked door. 

A set of paintbrushes and small vials of paint appeared on the desk after her sixth time of setting it ablaze. There was a stack of pages and a few silk scrolls among them. Azula burned those and threw the paint at the therapist when she arrived. It was cathartic, watching the way the blues and green paint dripped across the aging women’s face. They melded together, creating a spiral of colors of painted rain. It was beautiful in a way Azula hadn’t seen beauty in so long. The paints supplies were provided a second time. She lit the bamboo brushes aflame, crumbling as the burning hair bristles were caught alight by her orange flames. 

Orange. A deep clouded orange. Not her tragic cold blue. Azula stopped burning things after that. She just ignored it all. Ignored the therapist who tried to get her to open up about the tragedy of her childhood. Ignored her brother who sat across from her, and tried to get her to look at him. Ignored her Uncle who was just as uncomfortable being near her as she was being near him. Ignored the paintings supplies that taunted her across the room. 

“I bet I could draw better than you.” Zuko’s voice grated on her nerves with his challenge. He sat at the desk, fiddling with the charcoal stick he had brought with him. He took of the papers, balancing it against a book in his lap, and looked her over. “Just keep sitting their pouting. An excellent pose.”

Azula glared harder from her place on the bed. She sat cross legged, arms folded across her chest and leaning her back against the wall. She wasn’t pouting. She was glaring. Silence passed over them, broken only by Zuko’s charcoal sketching against the page. It was a comfortable silence, far better than the isolating one she was used to. 

“It looks just like you.” After nearly ten minutes, Zuko offered her up the paper. Azula took it, mouth aghast at what she was looking at. It was hideous. 

She turned the page at him, snarling, “how dare you insult me like this!” 

A smirk was across Zuko’s face; the bastard. “What are you talking about. It looks just like you.”

Azula looked at the sketch again; with its lopsided eyes and too small lips and scribble mess of hair and the weird shape of her posture. “I look like a horrendous blob!”

Zuko merely shrugged, taking the portrait back from her. “Like you could do any better.”

Azula knew she was being manipulated into this challenge. It was bait to get her to pick up the paint set once more. She would hand it to her brother, it was a tempting challenge. One she fell for easily. She took the charcoal stick, finding the feeling of it within her grip all so comforting all these years later. She directed him to sit as she liked, moving him to pose in the chair the way she wanted.

“This is uncomfortable-”

“Shut up, idiot.” Azula glared, sitting back down on the bed. “If you are making me do this, you will sit there and be quiet.”

She sketched him. For twenty minutes, she burnt the charcoal across the page, capturing him in shades of black and gray. She stared intently at the scar crossing his brother’s face, shadowing in every ridge and crevices burned into his face. It wasn’t anything spectacular by her standards, but the way Zuko’s face broke out into such a fantastic grin made it seem like she’d handed him a piece of priceless art. 

ooo

She painted more after that. The bare walls of her cell were slowly adorn with her intricate paintings, and quick sketches. Portraits of Zuko, of her therapist, of the woman who cleaned her room and washed her sheets, of the man who brought her food each day, of mother, of father, all hung from the wall by her bed. She painted on the walls. She painted a sprawling landscape that swam across her walls and inched onto the floor and stretched to the edges of the ceilings. She painted on her desk, turned the wooden bookshelf into a floral masterpiece, and sketched over the pages of books once she had read them. Years of art began to cover the space around her.

It was as if something inside of her sparked to life. She painted and painted and painted. Pigments covered her fingertips in a way ash once had.

“I got a surprise for you.” Zuko was standing in the doorway… the open doorway. He entered the room, setting a pile of clothes on the desk for her. “Get changed.”

Azula remained standing on the desk, stretching out to add depths to her waves. Wet paint dripped across Azula’s cheek, staining it a deep navy blue. She looked beyond Zuko, and the unguarded hallway. “What?”

Zuko moved back towards the open door, motioning a path for her. “You wanna come with me and see?” 

She jumped off the desk, landing on an old painting of a townhouse. She turned her back to Zuko, to the open doorway to clean the paint from her brush. “Come with you. You’re letting me from my cell.”

“This isn’t a cell.”

“There’s bars on the window and the door locks. Seems like a cell to me.”

“It’s a hospital. It’s been nothing more. If you want to leave, your room has always been ready for you back home.” She knew his words to be true. He had been reminding her for the last year now, even since the therapist declared she’d started getting a hold of her fragile mental stability and was deemed a low risk to herself. But four years in a space was difficult to step away from. “Come on, Azula. I have somewhere I know you’ll love.”

Azula looked him over, trying to find the deceit in his gaze. He looked earnest, always so earnest. He was just standing there, holding the door open and welcoming her out. Azula hadn’t left this room much. A few occasions she had stepped out on the wimps of her therapist, but she was always quick to return to these paint soaked walls. To do so now on her own accord… but Zuko looked so hopeful. So inviting. He was always manipulating her with that easy smile and warm eyes. It was the same way he had manipulated her into painting again. She had to give him credit, he was really good at his tactics. 

He wasn’t the only one who could play these games. She closed up her paint set, and grabbed her brushes. “Let me clean my mess.” 

There was a carriage awaiting them outside. This was the first time she had stepped out of the hospital walls. She’d been in the hospital gardens, but even that had been within those walls. The air out here was different. It was warmer and freer. Azula almost didn’t want to climb into the carriage as it blocked her off from the touch of the sun. She climbed in, sitting across from Zuko. There was a women sitting beside him; her chopped reddened hair and tight frown were very familiar. 

“It’s only about a twenty minute ride,” Zuko spoke, watching her carefully. He looked out the side of his unburnt eye, sharing an unspoken conversation with the other women. The women frowned tightly at him, before rolling her eyes and climbing out the window of the moving carriage. They could hear her moving to sit up front with the driver.

“What was all that?” Azula frowned, crossing her legs causally to mask the tension building in her.

“Suki is joining us on this trip. She’s not a hundred percent sure you won’t kill me. I told her she was over reacting, but considering she often holds my life in her hands, this wasn’t my hill to die on.”

“How do you know I won’t kill you? I’ve tried before.”

“You have. But I don’t think you will.”

“What makes you so sure.”

“Cause if you killed me in this carriage, you’ll never know what the surprise is.”

He had her there. “I’ll just kill you after.”

Zuko chuckled, resting casually in his seat. Azula looked him over, taking note of the changes the last four years had done to him. His face had lost a lot of his childish fat, and she could see notes of their father pocking through. But there was a softness to his features, to his eyes and jaw that were their mothers. His hair was still cut shorter than was proper for one of his status; it was a mess of black locks that ended around his chin and desperately needed to be brushed. He wasn’t wearing his crown, or any armor or Fire Lord regalia. He was never wearing that stuff whenever she saw him. Instead he sporting a pair of loose black pants, tucked into equally black boots, with a long red tunic decorated with thick yellow trim. It was a neatly put together look, but still far too casual for the Fire Lord to be seen wearing. 

Not that Azula had much to say concerning her appearance. The hospital garb she had sported for years was replaced with a dress, styled in a manner she wasn’t used to. It consisted of a strapless cherry red dress that ended just below her knees, with a loose sleeveless cropped maroon top over it. The military grade boots she had once loved had been replaced by black hospital ballet flats. There was a thick gold bracelet around her right wrist, covering the scars that had cut into her skin. Her hair was long, hanging in a shinning sheet of black. She wondered if she was looking more like mother, or more like father. It had been some time since she’d last seen herself in the mirror. She hadn’t been allowed once after she had smashed the last and driven the glass into her skin. 

The carriage pulled to a stop in front of a large white building. Zuko exited first, offering her his hand to climb out. She didn’t bother taking it, climbing from the carriage on her own. She looked at the building before her, jaw tightening. An art museum, with marble sculpted statues and stain glass windows. “Why bring me here?”

“I thought you might like it. You haven’t left the hospital and I saw how much you’ve been painting again… The museum is closed normally closed today but I pulled a few strings to get us in. It’ll just be the two of us. Plus Suki of course. And Yazhu, the museum curator. But no one else. No other people. No crowds. Only if you want to.”

Azula looked at him, trying to find the catch in his eyes. There was none of that there. Just patients and understanding and a love that had always resided there. After everything he was still standing beside her, giving none of the hate she knew she deserved. The door to the museum was open for her. She made her way into the museum, only taking the slightest of notes of Zuko trailing behind her, the other girl trailing behind him. The curator welcomed them in, rambling on about some artist or another that was being featured. She didn’t know any of the names being spoken to her, her gaze was on the exhibits awaiting for her.

“I’ll follow, you lead.” Zuko was nudging her towards the exhibits. She offered him a soft glare, before making her way into the museum. She passed a wing containing glass sculptures and heavily decorated vases, and a room dedicated to embroidered fabrics. 

She came upon a large wing adorned with painted hanging scrolls. The first she came upon was a fabric stretched from floor to ceiling, with two twisting trees and a picnicking women and child painted on it. There was a poem painted into the corner, an old story of mothers love. Next to it was one by the same artist, of a tree branch with birds picking at berries. There were more from him, of trees and birds and women inked onto hillsides. They were all done in black and green shaded inks and contrasted against the tanned silken fabrics. 

She moved around the room, taking in the heavy inked paintings. Each was more and more beautiful, of sprawling landscapes and intricately painted faces and detailed charcoal lines. She marveled at them, taking in each beautiful stroke of the brush. 

There was one that caused her to stop. It was done in all shades of black. A crocked tree in the foregrounds, misty mountains in the background, and a single fishing boat in a clouded sea. There was a feeling of fog over the scene. The one beside it was a waterfall, casting a mist over a shadowy town. A whale passing under a ship and a rippling sea, a town nestled along a fishing bank, a milky bundle of flowers, a forest stretching around mountains, a horse done in browns that seemed to melt into the tapestry. They were alive, with flourishing brush stocks.

“These are beautiful,” she whispered, gaze trailing over the forestry scene before her. There was a life to these paintings of blacks and shining grays

“Its done with an ink wash technique,” the museum curator was beside her, keeping a respectful distance and seeming ever slightly nervous.

“Ink wash? And what is that?”

The curator smiled, a bit less nervous at her curiosity. “Its done using a mixture of ink with water. The toning and shading is done with various grindings of ones ink stick into water, in addition to the lessening ink load within each brushstroke. The shading follows the standard dark to light format, but relies more heavily on the more gradual tonality change as opposed to such a contrasting one.”

“Interesting,” Azula muttered as she continued through the exhibits. She marveled at piece after piece, taking in the brushstrokes and techniques she had never tried. She stopped registering Zuko following behind her heels, and the women following behind his. 

She stopped before another, one that was several feet long and several tall. It was a beautiful depiction of Caldera City, of the city residing within the long dormant volcano. She leaned forward, taking in each stroke of mountain stone and wooden homes. 

“Pretty.” Zuko was beside her, looking over the painting. 

“Really pretty,” she responded. They stood there, taking in the beautiful painting of their home.

“I remember how much I missed home,” Zuko spoke slowly. “Both times I left it. The first time… it hurt so much not being able to go home. There were days where I could barely get up, knowing that it was just another day stuck on the sea. And days when I was so angry about it that I let it cloud every thought.”

Azula looked at him from the corner of her eye. She could only see that deep red scar of his pocking out from under his mess of black hair. “Is that your subtle way of reminding me I could go home?”

“Your room is already made up.”

“I’m a threat to you. To your reign.” Azula’s gaze narrowed.

“Even if you decided to overthrow me, I guarantee you’ll be giving me the job back within the week.”

“You sound confident in that.”

“I pulled a gray hair this morning. Gray. I’m twenty and I’m already graying. One consul meeting with Hough going on and on about the most trivial matters will have you dragging me back from whatever shallow grave you drop me in, to shove that crown back on my head.” 

Azula had to smirk. She continued to look at Zuko from the side of her gaze, taking in all notes of his scars. She never noticed how many shades of red made up the mark. There were so many little nicks and crannies in his ruined flesh. “What if I just left. Stole your carriage and fucked off to you don’t know where.”

Zuko shrugged, looking at her fully. “I’d be sad. I’d be really sad knowing you’d rather run off than see me anymore. But I’d get it. I’d be sad, but I’d understand.”

Azula turned to face him as well. She stepped forward, jamming her finger into he chest. She noticed Suki shifting closer, but did not intervene yet. “Stop it.”

“Stop what?”

“This. This understanding, big brother act.” Her voice was flat, devoid of the emotions boiling inside her. “Taking me to this museum. Giving me all those paint supplies. Why do all this?”

Zuko’s shoulders dropped slightly. “You didn’t see me after…” he guested to his face, to his scar, “I was a real monster. I was angry and lost and had all intent to burn the world around me. If I was going to burn, it would do so too. And I would have. I probably would have burnt myself out, and damned whoever was near me when it happened, had it not been for Uncle.

“He was there, through every fever dream, every nightmare, every breakdown and tantrum and poor decision I made. He stood by my side, offering advice to deaf ears and forgiveness when I know I did not deserve it. If it wasn’t for him… I don’t want to think about the person I might have become. And I know I’m not…” Zuko rubbed the back of his neck, but not looking away, “as good at this as he is… but I’m trying. Because he saved me from myself, and you finally opened up to me and…. And… and I just hope that I can do the same for you.”

“You wanna save me from myself?”

Zuko’s one brow raised. “Do you need to be?”

She looked away, gaze trailing across the painted city. She wanted to burn it. Part of her wanted to burn all of these beautiful works of art until they were ash and dust. The urge was a lot less smothering as it used to be. “What if I’m not worth it. What if you’re just wasting your time.”

It wasn’t framed as a question.

“Well, we could always waste time together then.”

Azula laughed. She laughed deeply, drawing something from her that had long since been dormant. It hurt to laugh that hard. “That’s not a very compelling argument. But… maybe… maybe I do want to go home.” 

ooo

“I need words with you, your Fireness!” The door to the office slammed open. That annoying Water Tribe man stormed in, leveling a glare with those striking blue eyes. There was a slight upturn to his lips. “How could you betray me like this?”

Zuko looked up from the paperwork he was reading. He looked at Azula sitting on his desk, her own stack of parchment in her hands, before he looked up at the approaching man. There was a smile threatening to cross his lips as he slide those hideous, thin glasses from his face. “What is this about, Sokka?”

The annoying man stopped in from of the desk. He crossed his arms over his chest, leaning his weight onto his back leg. “How could you do this to me? You have never hung up any of the art I have made you. Never. But you hang up this crazy women’s stuff. Hello Azula. Good to see you.”

“Hello, Smelly Peasant.” She looked away, putting her focus back onto the reports of skirmishes in some of the outer islands. Putting up with Zuko’s assembly of friends routing into the Fire Nation was something she had gotten used to in the eight months since she had returned home. She can’t say she hated all of them, the dirty little earthbender and the Kyoshi Warrior leader were quite entertaining. The Avatar was a bundle of innocence that was amusing to poke at. The waterbender was pure annoyance, and her brother was a loud mess. 

“I am not smelly! Zuko, what did I do to make you hate me?”

“What are you going on about?”

“The art, Zuko. The art. I have sent you so many paintings. You hung none of them up. Not the one I did of Appa. Or the one of Ba Sing Se. Not even the one I did of you and me, that one was special. I put my heart into it. And you just throw them to the side and put her work on the walls.”

“Maybe because mine at least are good.” Azula had stopped reading the pages, fully invested in this scene. It wasn’t true. The Annoyance had talent, it was clear to all of them. But he never learned technique; he spat on forms and traditionally tested method. 

“Zuko!” Sokka was sputtering.

“Children, children,” Zuko waved the two of their attentions onto him. “You are both very talented.”

“Then why don't you hang up my art?”

“I do.” Zuko motioned towards the wall on their left. On it, was some of the dozen little paintings that Sokka had sent him over the years. A few of Azula’s earliest works, including that first one she had done in the hospital were there as well. “I hang them all in here, so I can see them. I hang both of your guys stuff in here. She’s the one who started hanging herself in other place.”

“Oh,” Sokka muttered. He rubbed at the stubble on his chin, narrowing his gaze. “How have I never noticed those hanging there?”

Zuko was leaning back in his chair, smirking fully at this point. “I try to keep you out of my office.”

Sokka’s gaze went to Azula, who was casually fiddling with her nail bed. “She’s in here.”

“I forced my way in. Zuko would be lost without my experience.” 

“Both of you are about to be banned from my office if you keep it up.”

Sokka and Azula threw identical frowns at the young Fire Lord. “You couldn’t keep me out if you tried.”

“Seriously Zuzu, you love to pick losing battles.” 

ooo

Azula set the page on fire, watching it burn in her orange flames. Orange. Still orange. Never blue.

“You good?” Zuko looked up from the pot of tea he was brewing to send her a concerned frown. He slide a fresh muffin her way. She had been shocked at first, to discover his budding baking skills, but every time she ate something he created she was glad he’d given up painting for this. She took a bite of the muffin; a mouthful bigger than a princess was meant to take. It was just the two of them in the kitchen that morning. It was another thing that had thrown her off, how ready the kitchen staff was willing to give Zuko space to work. She had a lot of question concerning that she’d ask one day. 

“I cannot get this right,” Azula finally answered, finding it difficult to speak so freely of her struggles. She had learned in theses last few years that keeping every little problem bottled up only endangered herself from losing it once more. That didn’t make it easier to open up. “I’ve been trying to work this Ink Wash technique and I haven’t been able to do it. It always comes out murky and wet. It’s frustrating.”

Zuko handed her a cup of the tea. “What about finding someone who knows how to do it?”

“There’s not a lot of people in the area who know how to do it. Its a fairly new style, and I am not going to go running the countryside, begging some filthy artist to teach me.” 

“You are looking for an artist?” Uncle’s voice in the doorway drew their attention from each other. The older man walked in slowly, doing well to keep himself in Azula’s line of sight for her comfort. He took a cup of tea for himself, joining her at the kitchen island. Zuko joined at her side. She appreciated him sitting this close, their shoulders briefly touching. “I do not mean to inject myself, but I do have a friend that is proficient in the technique you are studying. He’s quite the talented artist. I’m sure he will be more than excited to teach you should you ask.”

Azula narrowed her gaze. She wanted to turn him away, just as he had turned her away all those years ago. But she wasn’t a petulant child anymore. They both had made mistakes, hurt the other in ways they never should had. It was time to move on. “Who is this person?”

“His name is Piandao.”

“The Master Piandao?” Zuko’s face was alight with interest.

Azula raised a brow at her brother. “Who?” 

Zuko turned to her. “The greatest swordsmaster to ever live. He’s famous.”

“Never heard of him.”

Zuko looked at her like her head had rolled onto the floor. “Do you remember those four days I disappeared, right after mom…. You know… and before Uncle got home?”

Azula did remember. “Yes. I remember father being furious when you got back.”

“That he was. But I had ran off to Master Piandao to try and get him to teach me. I spent three day outside his house demanding he train me. I broke into his house at one point. He was amused, but sent me home. Said I needed to work on my attitude.”

Their Uncle had an expression on his face, like he was not all surprised by this statement of idiocy. “Neither of you ever mentioned this.”

Zuko shrugged, “I try not to bring up all my humiliations.”

“He can teach me?” Asked Azula. 

Iroh was smiling behind his cup. “I will send him a letter to let him know of your arrival. He is awfully ridged about his selection of students. If you wish to study under him, you will have to prove your worth. It is something you will have to do on your own.”

Azula inspected her nails, casting her nervous gaze away. “I doubt he will turn me away.” 

He did just that. He welcomed her at the gate, frowned at her attitude, and promptly sent her away. Azula stood there, looking a fool at the closed gates. She rang them again, slamming the knockers against the wood in an echoing bang. Piandao answered the door once more.

“You will teach me,” Azula demanded a second time. “I came all this way, I will not go back unsuccessful.” 

Piandao smiled at her tightly. “I admire your dedication to the study, but I will not be bullied into training you. I will tell you the same thing I told your brother, all those years ago. Go home. Figure out why you truly wish to learn. And work on that attitude of yours. The youth, always so entitled.”

The door was shut in her face once more. Azula growled, flames licking from her fingers. She threw her bag of paint onto the ground, ready to light it aflame with the burning orange flame in her palm. She took a breath, calming her flames. With another breath, she grabbed her back and stormed her way back towards the train station.

“Zuko!” She kicked the door to his office open. He just sighed, setting the paperwork aside. “I need you to help me break into Piandao’s house.”

Zuko never looked more excited in his life. He was already out of his chair, dragging her towards the door. “Breaking and entering is my favorite hobby.”

Piandao was even less impressed to have two Fire Nation Royals standing in his living room; slightly wet from having fallen into a pond. He looked them over, sighing heavily from his place sat by the very pond. He raised his tea cup to his lips, tilting it slightly, but not enough to drink. “It is good to see you again, Fire Lord Zuko. How is Sokka? It has been some time since he has visited.”

Zuko rubbed the back of his neck, not able to meet that steady eye contact. “He’s good. He’s good.”

“That is good to hear.” Piandao sat the cup on the low table beside him. He cast a brief smirk at Fat beside him before looking back. “Now. Princess Azula. You must be quite determined to train under me to break into my home. There has only been one other child cockeyed enough to do so.” Three sets of eyes briefly shifted to the man in question. “So, tell me. Why should I train you?”

Azula opened her mouth, but then closed it half a second later. Piandao was sitting before her, shoulders rising and falling in patient breathes. She was still standing, back rigid and shoulders tight. Demands and expectations rested on her lips, yet she knew they would get her no where. It was something she was learning slowly, but learning none the less. She moved gracefully, sitting in a lotus position opposite the man. Her golden gaze was solid and waved just once. “This is all I have.”

Piandao’s shoulder’s dropped just an inch. “That must not be true.”

Azula refused to break eye contact. “This is different than anything else. This is… This is something that is mine. Something that is me. I am living for me now, not by others standards or demands. And I want to learn. I was told you are the best, and I wish to only be trained by the best.”

Piandao searched her gaze, seeming to find something that she was unable to say. “Very well.”

An expression finally crossed Azula’s face. It was shock. “That’s it. Just like that.”

“The greatest gift of all time, is that a person can change his destiny with just the smallest change to oneself.” Piandao raised a brow, earning a groan from Zuko who had heard the expression far too often thrown his way. “I will not be the one to stand in the way of your changes.”

“I’m just asking you to teach me how to paint properly.” 

Piandao merely chuckled, standing slowly. The others three rose with him. “Nothing is ever that simple. Now come, Princess, I have much to share with you. Fire Lord Zuko...”

Zuko didn’t like the attention back onto him. “Yes?”

Piandao crossed his arms behind his back, leveling the young leader with a rough smile. “When you return for your sister tonight, please knock on the front door. Stop breaking into my house.”

“Yes sir.”

ooo

Slow progression was not something Azula was used to. She had excelled her entire life at every skill she put her hands on. She mastered firebending by the age of thirteen. She perfected her pose, perfected her mannerisms, remained at the top of every class she attended. She took to military strategies and manipulated people like a game. She passed through life for so long, until it all burnt away.

Six months to perfect the technique; not a perfection to her standards. Piandao praised her skills and how far she had come. Reassured her that any mistake was a step along the way. “Perfection is overrated child. Loosen your wrist and allow the paint to flow. You must learn to let lose on some of that control.”

That was what did it for her. Control was the only aspect of Azula’s life she… well had control over. Perfectly manicured nails, hair clipped into place, lips lined with a swift paint and eyes lined to an angle. Fire dancing blue in her hands, the perfect control of power and heat. But control left. Her blue flames left. 

Zuko’s flame flicked blue. She watched by her place in the courtyard; nursing a cold cup of tea and forgetting the scene of roses she painted, in favor of watching her brother. He was moving freely, hair sticking up wildly with sweat, and such casual clothes rumpled with movement. His feet were bare, gliding across the stone as if a sheet of air lay under them. Zuko moved with grace, wisps of color dancing around the vibrant orange flames. Red and greens, purples and yellows, whites and…

Blue. A crisp blue, so bright and alive. It was the same shade as hers, but so different all the same. Her blue had been cold, icy and left no room for mistakes. Zuko’s blue was warm and soft in all the ways that were different. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t right.

He finished his forms and dropped down at the picnic bench across from her. He reached into her bag of candy, taking a handful of cherry drops. “Those are really pretty. I like the blues.”

“You would know about blue.” She knew her voice was tinted with jealously, but she wasn’t going to be the one to bring it up.

Zuko would do that for her. “You wanna tell me what’s wrong.”

She dabbed her brush into the paint a little too roughly. Moving to drag it over the canvas, a glob of blue dropped off and splattered over the series of orange violets. It took one finger placed in the center of the canvas to alight and burn it in an orange blaze.

“You still haven’t had any blue come back.”

Azula’s glare meet his equally gold set. “Rubbing it in.”

Her temper was flaring. She could practically see his beginning to flare up as well. The infamous Fire Nation temper threatened to spark between them. As soon as it crossed his face, did Zuko take a heavy breath to calm himself. She needed to learn how he did that. “Your fire being orange doesn’t make you any less talented of a firebender.”

“Uncle Iroh has the market on annoying wisdom, I don’t wanna hear it from you too.” There was no bite to her voice.

Zuko chuckled. “I have years of him forcing proverbs into my ears. It’s only right that I impact my wisdom onto others.”

“You’re so fucking annoying.” The corners of her lips turned up in a small smile. She kept looking at him, not wishing to see the pile of ash laying before her. “I feel like… Like something inside me… it died that day of the comet. Like I broke and even though I’ve pieced myself back together, I’m still missing something. Like I lost a piece of myself.”

“Lost...” something crossed over Zuko’s face. “Do you trust me?”

“No.”

The smile dropped slightly. “I’m not going to pretend like I get exactly what you’re going through. But I get part of it. Losing that part of your bending, I felt that years ago. Whenever I left to join Aang, I lost my bending for a bit. I centered my life around trying to please our father, trying to be the perfect son for him and my bending became fueled by my anger from me failing that. And whenever I stopped living for him, stopped letting that anger control me, my firebending suffered for it.”

“You clearly got it back.”

“I think I have something that could help you. I can’t guarantee, but I think it might. But you have to trust me.”

Azula trusted him more than anyone. That realization alone would have scared her once. She nodded…

… She shouldn’t have trusted him. Fuck her brother. The idiot. The absolute buffoon! Here she stood at the top of a tower, watching in fascinated horror as two dragons flew mesmerizing circles around her. She was going to be eaten, assassinated by her brother at the mouth of a monster. She looked down the side of the tower, spotting him kneeling with the rest of a long forgotten civilization. 

“Just breath when you get up there,” he had told her as she’d began to ascend the stairs. “And watch what they do. You’ll figure it out.”

Figure what out, she didn’t know. What was she supposed to do? The offering of fire she had brought had been snuffed out by the current of air the dragons created around her. What other did they want, if not that flame? She tried to create another flame in her palm, but that too went out. Each flame she produced died to the suction of air.  
Azula stopped trying to produce any flames, and took her gaze onto the blue dragon flying before her. She watched as the beast flew through the air, curling its body in elegant swirls and drops. It was beautiful and almost familiar. There was a pattern and they moved in matching forms. 

It was a dance. She understood that now. They moved in form together, hitting each strike with matching precision. Azula kept her gaze of the blue sliver, watching as it danced through the air. She moved, replicating the firebending set she had learned only a short few hours ago. The steps were strange, the motions of her arm a soft flow. She moved through the steps, watching the dragons dance around her. She hit the last stance, jutting her fists to the side, lowering her head. 

And the world halted. The air around her stilled as the dragons stopped flying. They were hovering before the tower. A giant blue face stared her down, bright eyes searching for something inside her. It found whatever it was looking for. 

The tower shook as the dragons latched their talons into it. They opened her mouth and breathed a tornado of flames around her. She screamed. She threw her arms before her, hoping to block most of the flames. None of them touched her. She could see the heat passing over her, but dragon’s fire hadn’t fried her on the spot.

Slowly dropping her arms, Azula stared at the wonder. The flames were laced with color. Colors in such vibrant shades that she had never seen before. Those colors reflected in her golden eyes. As soon as the flames engulfed her, did they fade into the air. The dragons gave one last stare, before disappearing back into their caves. Azula stood there for another ten minutes before she finally descended the stairs.

Zuko’s arms wrapped around her; he was becoming a bit of a hugger thanks to the infuriating Avatar. He pulled away, looking at her in concern. “You good.”

Azula raised her hand, offering her palm to the sun. A flame began to grow in her grip. 

Orange. It was orange. Still it was orange. Yet blue trickled through. She watched with baited breath as flickers of blue became more consistent within the little flame. She closed her fingers, smothering the flames. Recovery, she had learned, was not a simple one time fix.

ooo

The hall of portraits had been a place of glory when she was a child. Generations and hundreds of years of Fire Lords adorned the halls in giants, intricate painted fabrics. Fifteen years old Azula had once dreamed of having her portrait with the rest. Twenty one year old Azula had long since moved on from those desires. She would never be up there with her ancestors, a legacy of rule under her name and that was alright with her. Being Fire Lord was not worth the stress that came with it.

“Do I really look like this?” While her depiction would never reside in that hall, the counsel had been hounding Zuko about getting his done. He’d been shuttled off at first light that morning, forced to sit with a painter as the roughed out a design for his portrait. She’d found him three hours later, standing in the hall of portraits. He shoved a thin canvas in her arms, ever taking his gaze off the blank space beside their father. 

Azula couldn’t say it was bad. The artist had skill. But it wasn’t her brother. Sure, the aspects of him were there; the crisp gold eyes, the striking cheekbones, the scar that touched his face. But it was all slightly off. His cheekbones were ridiculously sharp, his eyes a cold golden stone, and the scar on his face lightened and almost minimized. He wore elegant robes, stained red against a backdrop of dark gray. The top knot was smoothed into a perfect shape, not a strand out of place. There was an empty sketch along the hem of his robes, some minor details to work out later.

Azula took her gaze off the rough painting and looked at her brother. The top knot was crocked on his head, strands hanging out in every manner. His eyes shinned a deep light, despite the bags resting under them. The scar their father had embedded into his face was worn and set in place after years. The painting was so fake, she handed it back. “This does not do you justice.”

Zuko took the portrait, frowning at it. He looked back at the empty space on the wall. “It’s such a stupid thing to be upset about, but I can’t help it.”

“It’s not stupid.” Azula crossed her arms over he chest, leaning her weight back. “You listen to all my stupid problems. It’s only fair I listen to yours.”

“You’re problems aren’t stupid,” he muttered. “It makes me look like our father.”

“That is does. You’re not him though.”

“I know. But looking at it…” both their gazes went to the striking image of their father, “thinking about being up here, with our father and grandfather and Sozin, looking just like them…. Not looking like myself.”

Azula took the canvas again, eyeing it over. “Get someone else to paint it.”

“What?”

“Whoever they had do this, they did a shitty job. It doesn’t look like you. It looks like what your counsel is always trying to force you into being. So find someone else to paint it. Someone who knows you.”

“You have someone in mind….” Zuko trailed off, looking at her closely.

Azula pushed the long bang from in front of her eyes, leveling him with a smirk. “You could ask your boyfriend.”

Zuko shrugged. “Nah. Sokka would get way too big an ego if I asked him. I was thinking you.”

Azula refused to look at him. Her gaze moved to the empty space in front of them. “You don’t want me to do it.”

“Sure I do. Who’s going to know me better than my sister?”

“I could make you look an absolute fool.”

“Well that’s the truest depiction out there.”

A laugh escaped Azula’s throat. She smothered it behind her hand. “I’ve never done a piece that big.”

“I’d prefer it to be smaller. I don’t want floor to ceiling.”

“I’m sure you’re council would object.”

“They object to everything I say.” 

Azula looked him over, searching his face. “You serious about this? You want me to do it?”

Zuko threw her a grin. “Could you have a rough sketch on my desk by the end of the week.”

A dramatic sigh escaped Azula’s lips. She couldn’t cover the smile that crossed her lips. “I’m sure I’ll think of something.”

The portrait was hung on the wall four months later. It was much smaller than the others in the hall, only being about a yard tall and half wide, and only the top half of him, as opposed to a full body. She smoothed the frazzled lines of his hair, set a glistening crown into the top knot on his head, and sculpted the edges of his face into soft lines. The robes were simple, yet formal and elegant in a soft scarlet and gold. She didn’t hold back on the scar, creating ridges of rusted reds just as they were. Behind him, was a soft fading orange. Two dragons, blue and red, met behind his head with claws interlocked. 

She found every spec that was wrong with it. Azula had almost removed it the moment it was put on the wall, when she realized the shadowing on his scar wasn’t quite what it wanted. She turned to Zuko, ready to face all his criticisms. He only smiled at her, gaze shimmering as he wrapped his arms around her.

Azula did well to hide the blush on her face as she looked at her work now residing in the hall of her ancestors. 

ooo

“Have you ever thought about finding her?” Azula knew the sketch of her mother was off. She’d been trying for some time now to get it right, but her face was lost to her.

Zuko stopped kneading the dough he’d been working on. He looked at her, his gaze soft and dull. “I tried. Right after everything started to calm down. I sent notices through the Fire Nation, hoping that something would reach her. A friend of mine, you remember the lady who showed up here a few times; leather dress, tattoos and the giant mole creature.”

Oh yes, Azula remembered her. “She’s far too cool for you.”

“She’s a bounty hunter. Meet her while trying to find Aang. The giant mole creature is actually a real good tractor. Can find someone half a world away. But she needs something with a scent on it. And father burnt most of her stuff whenever she disappeared, and what I saved and took with me when I was banished, ended up getting destroyed with Zhao blew my ship up. There’s nothing of her left.”

Azula looked down at the sketch, staring at the face of a ghost. She looked back at Zuko, who was kneading into the dough again. She got up without another word and made her way towards her bedroom. It took about five minutes for her to get there and back, her prize in her hand. Zuko stopped working, looking at her in wonder. 

She placed a bracelet onto the table, the string of painted beads dulled from years. Zuko’s finger’s brushed over it, offering her a raised brow. Azula took the bracelet, running her thumb over one of the red beads. “Whenever she left, the next night I went to bed and found this under my pillow. It’s hers. I painted these beads. It’s one of the first things I painted. I made us matching ones. Mine was gone from my dresser, and she left hers with me. It’s been in a box, hidden under the floorboards all these years. Will it work?”


End file.
